The Calendar's Journey

June 15, 2025

Yesterday morning gave me a welcome pause. I put my healing feet up, let the quiet settle in, and turned my attention to writing, something that is helping me process, reflect, and feel just a bit more like myself.

What follows below started as scattered fragments: notes, thoughts, half-finished lines scribbled in notebooks over the past few months. Slowly, they began to take shape, and I’m grateful for the space to bring them together.

The afternoon was something special. I had the joy of spending time with family and some longtime family friends, people who have been woven into our lives over the years in ways both big and small. We shared stories, laughter, and that easy sense of familiarity that only comes with time. It reminded me how grounding it is to be with people who know your history, and still choose to lean in and stay close.

To the Macho Men and their beautiful wives, thank you for listening, for sharing, and most of all, for simply being present with me yesterday. Your presence was a powerful reminder of what truly matters. I’m deeply grateful for your continued love, support, and the way you always show up with open hearts.

Today brings something we’ve been looking forward to for quite a while. Maria and I will be heading to the Kennedy Center to see Les Misérables, joined by dear friends. It’s one of those experiences that feels like both an escape and a reminder, of resilience, beauty, and the power of storytelling. A good show, good company, and an afternoon to feel fully present.

Later this week (M-W), I’m back in the chemo chair for three days. They’re long days, physically draining in ways I never quite get used to, and these are the longest yet. But I’m prepared. I’ve got a lineup of movies and books queued up, little lifelines to pass the time and keep my mind busy while my body does the hard work.

Sending my best to all of you, may this week bring you moments of joy, connection, and a bit of rest when you need it most.

---

Thank you all for the feedback on my last post, Etchings. I’m still not quite sure how I feel about it. Part of me wants to stop messing with it, but there’s this pull to keep refining, to "get it right," whatever that means.

Maybe I just need to let it be. It captured a moment and trying to polish it too much might strip away what made it real in the first place.

The piece below is written a bit differently. These thoughts weren’t pulled together from a single thread, they were scattered, tucked into the margins of my notebooks and scribbled between the lines. It didn’t hit me right away, but something stirred when I started flipping through old calendars. One year ago. Two. Five. Ten. Patterns emerged. Silences echoed. This one hit deeper.

This one’s deeply emotional, maybe the hardest piece I’ve written. It carries both joy and regret in equal measure. If I’d written it by hand, the ink would’ve blurred beneath the weight of tears that fell as I worked through it.

I saw the moments of beauty with my family, clear, vibrant, and I saw the ones I missed, just as vivid in their absence.

This didn’t come from the head. It came from somewhere quieter, heavier, from the soul. It’s raw, and sharing it makes me uneasy… which probably means it’s worth sharing.

I hope The Calendar’s Journey, resonates with you.

---

The Calendar’s Journey

Once,

the calendar anchored our rhythm,

steady and bright,

guiding us through recital nights,

Saturday hikes,

soccer practices,

snow days.

Its squares filled quickly,

with birthday parties and bake sales, and

book fairs and permission slips,

last-minute science projects,

and mismatched socks on spirit week Mondays.

Each scribble was a snapshot;

field trips circled in red,

sleepovers penciled in the corners,

vacation countdowns marked with stars.

The children were growing.

So were we.

Through lost teeth and growing pains,

scraped knees and school concerts,

we moved forward, together.

The hikes grew longer.

What began as Saturday strolls through neighborhood parks

became weekend treks on forest trails,

then weeks-long journeys into the mountains,

beneath canyon walls that held our echoes.

Scouting milestones filled the margins,

service projects, campouts, merit badges,

and summers spent under open skies.

We were a family shaped by motion,

by gear packed the night before,

by car rides filled with stories and laughter,

by seasons we marked not just by months,

but by memories made outdoors.

But then, the calendar began to quiet.

What was once a flurry of paper stuck to the refrigerator, with old magnets from trips gone by, slowly disappeared.

It migrated to glowing screens, tucked into apps and synced across our lives.

And still, their activities began to fade.

Little by little,

one by one.

Games gave way to part-time jobs,

campouts to college visits.

Recitals were replaced by acceptance letters,

sleepovers by dorm assignments.

No longer did every box overflow.

Instead, it read:

“Ethan - College move-in.”

“Gabriel - Coming home, Amtrak.”

“Noah - Spring break.”

The rhythm was different;

proud, wistful, spacious.

Time moved forward,

in quiet ways at first.

Until one day,

January 8, 2025

the calendar stopped looking like life,

and started sounding like survival.

Now, it speaks not of living,

but of staying alive.

Scans.

Infusions.

Follow-ups.

Blood draws.

Each entry marks a round,

a wait,

a quiet breath held in hope.

Time no longer moves in weekends or seasons.

It ticks in cycles,

plateaus and plunges,

counts and crashes.

Life is measured

in numbers that return,

in the stillness before results,

in the fragile space between treatments.

For a few days,

I almost feel like myself.

In those flickers,

I laugh without flinching,

feel sunlight without shrinking,

almost.

Then comes the crash.

The folding in.

Hair falls slowly,

then all at once.

Balance falters.

The body forgets its rhythm.

Some days,

I breathe through waves of pain.

Other days vanish into a fatigue no sleep can mend.

This is not a rhythm.

It is response.

Endurance.

Still, the calendar fills.

Not with celebrations,

but with what must be endured.

No fireworks.

No feasts.

Only treatment days,

and rare moments carved out for rest.

Outside, life continues.

Laughter drifts in from the yard,

children chasing fireflies in summer dusk,

diving into leaf piles,

sledding through winter’s slush,

spinning in spring’s thaw.

I watch and listen from the window.

Not with envy,

but with the ache of memory.

I remember freedom,

untethered movement,

a life not shaped by diagnosis.

I yearn for the mess of living;

shoes by the door,

notes in the margins,

days that slipped by because we were too busy being alive.

Now,

time stretches,

procedure to procedure,

scan to scan,

question to quiet question.

Always something waiting.

Always the unknown.

We live here,

in this still stretch

between what was planned

and what must now be endured.

The calendar has changed.

But so have we.

What once marked milestones

now maps our will to continue,

day by day,

cycle by cycle,

step by quiet step.

Yet in the margins,

hope begins to grow again.

Soon,

the calendar will shift once more.

New memories will return to its pages;

travel plans,

weddings,

birthdays,

time with friends,

the weightless joy of holding a grandchild.

The squares will bloom again

with promise and motion.

Even then,

between those joyful days,

there will be others:

checkups, scans,

the whisper of worry

that it could return.

This, too,

will be part of the rhythm;

not of fear,

but of awareness,

of life lived fully despite uncertainty.

The calendar has changed.

It will keep changing.

So will we.

What once captured who we were

now makes space

for all we still may become.

We are still here,

living in the time between,

remembering what was,

reaching for what’s next.